Best of Three
by Blaze Moonlight
Summary: Moments of Quidditch for Marcus Flint. Birthday Present for Kauri-Blume.
1. Match

"SHIT! SHIT SHIT!""

Third year Slytherin, Marcus Flint, looked up to see Gryffindor's Quidditch captain, Charlie Weasley, swearing and pacing.

"What's with him?" he remarked.

"The Gryffindor keeper has taken ill," replied Higgs, "And they don't have a substitute. He's been asking random Gryffindors to play but so far he's had nothing but rejections. Not the best way to start the season."

Flint laughed; if Gryffindor had no keeper then his job as chaser became ten times easier.

***********************

"Are you ready to kick some Gryffindork-arse?!" yelled the Slytherin captain.

There was a loud roar as the Slytherin team responded. Flint shouldered his broom and followed his team out on the field.

"For Slytherin we have…" called the commentator, some mouthy Ravenclaw who's name Marcus couldn't be bothered to remember, "Higgs, Branstone, Bole, Walters, Pucey, Flint and Bletchley."

There was a wave of cheers from the crowd.

"And for Gryffindor we have: Weasley, Daniels, Moore, Barker, Kings, Wilson and…" the commentator trailed off, "WHO THE HELL HAS WEASLEY GOT PLAYING KEEPER? Does anybody know that kid?"

A ripple ran through the stadium as people craned their necks to get a look at the Gryffindor keeper and failed miserably.

"OH!" the commentator cried, "I have just been informed that the stand-in keeper for Gryffindor is Oliver Wood, second year."

As the boy said it the Gryffindors moved forward and the boy came into view. Flint snorted and he could hear his teammates sniggering around him. Like hell that little kid would stand a chance against the might of the Slytherin team. The brunet looked like he might break in two with one good punch, he probably hadn't even hit his teenage growth spurt yet, he was gonna be easy.

He leered at the brown-eyed Gryffindor. The boy leant backwards looking ever so slightly terrified.

As Branstone and Weasley shook hands he steeled himself for the easiest match of his Quidditch career.

Thirty seconds later the match was in progress.

He had to admit the Gryffindors were doing a smart job of keeping the ball out of the Slytherin's possession but it was only so long.

And Barker dropped the Quaffle. He snatched it out of the air immediately and raced towards the Gryffindor goals. 'First goal of the match,' he cheered to himself as he made split second eye-contact with the kid in Gryffindor's goals and pelted the ball at him.

The tiny second year used his broom tail to send it hurtling straight into the arms of Moore.

There was a collective 'Ooohhhh…' from the crowds but Flint heard the commentators voice cut in with a laugh as he announced, "At least the kid got one save – nobody would want the Slytherin chasers skills upsetting him now."

Flint laughed and submerged himself into the game.

It was several minutes before Slytherin got another chance at possession; Pucey had the ball this time and was coming up the side of the Gryffindor goals ready to make a shot that Flint knew would be next to impossible to save.

The brunet jerked his broom forty-five degrees and caught the Quaffle in both hands. Flint was therefore delighted when, as the boy passed it back to Gryffindor, Bole hammered a Bludger into the kid's back. Unfortunately it didn't seem to affect the quality of the pass in the slightest.

Ten minutes and four more saves later the commentator stopped criticising the red-robed keeper.

After another save he announced, "Whoever this Wood kid is Weasley might well consider putting onto the reserve list full-time. Cause for a second year those are some hell-good saves."

"We're changing our strategy towards their keeper," yelled Bole as they passed in the air, "We're just gonna batter him out of the air – he won't last more than a hit or two."

And not three minutes later the Quaffle was close enough to the goals to get away with hitting out at the boy.

Marcus could actually _see_ the pain in the boy's eyes as the brutal leather ball slammed against his side. It was thrilling. But even better had been when the Bludger came swooping around and caught the younger male straight in the back of the head. The only thing that could have improved that moment is if it had knocked him off his broom.

The match continued that way with the young Gryffindor getting hit over and over again with Slytherin's most aggressive hits. Both teams cared more about winning than anything else.

But as sickening as it was to Flint – Gryffindor won.

"So it's a shockingly good season start for the Gryffindor squad," called the commentator, "With a win, a tight one, but a win all the same. This year shows a good squad for the Slytherin side though and – OUCH! Somebody might one to get Wood to the hospital wing because if he didn't need it before he sure does now after that little collision with the ground."

Every player span around on their broom to face the Gryffindor goals. The Slytherins with curiosity and the Gryffindors with concern.

The young Gryffindor keeper was no longer on his broom. Instead he lay in an awkward spread-eagle position on the sand beneath the goals.

"I'm not sure what triggered it," continued the announcer, "But whatever it was Wood has just inexplicably gone crashing messily to the ground. I'm thinking that the Slytherin Beater's tricks might have been more effective than we thought."

By now both teams were landing around the unconscious Gryffindor and Madam Pomfrey was running over with her wand at the ready.

"Is he alright?" Leanne Daniels asked worriedly.

"Clearly he is not," Pomfrey snapped, running some sort of diagnostic charm on the lifeless youth and shaking her head disapprovingly, "He needs the hospital wing alright."

"What's wrong with him?" Daniels persisted.

Pomfrey frowned at her, "Well to be going on with he's unconscious with a concussion, his left arm is broken, at least one of his ribs is cracked, there's a minor fracture in his skull, innumerable cuts and bruises and he's coming down with a particularly nasty cold. That he managed to stay on his broom for the entire match in this condition is positively ridiculous."

"He played through _that level_ of injury?" Weasley blurted incredulously.

"Ollie's Quidditch _mental_," piped up one of the student's now crowding around, "He's played since he got his first broom when he was _five_. He was always in and out of hospital back then. He follows the league obsessively and he can actually recite 'Quidditch through the Ages' from _memory_. He's so in love with game it probably didn't occur to him he was injured – he's a freak like that."

"That's quite enough Mr Andrews," snapped Pomfrey, levitating the prone and fragile looking child, "He will be staying in the hospital wing until he's fully recovered and no student involvement is needed."

The cluster of people dispersed, teams heading raucously back to their locker rooms and students to their common rooms Marcus Flint made a vow to himself.

He _would_ beat Oliver Wood. It just wouldn't do to be bested by some cutesy little Gryffindor brat.


	2. Practise

Marcus Flint grinned to himself as he balanced on the window ledge of an unused first-floor classroom watching the view of the lawns.

It seemed the Gryffindors had found a new seeker.

That first year wonder-boy Harry bloody Potter. Urgh.

Still, if anything could cheer him up after a long day it was watching Oliver Wood trying to be a tough commanding Quidditch captain.

Or possibly his clothing choices.

Dumb Gryffindor, no sensible person would decide to play Quidditch in a form-fitting black sweater and narrow trousers. Especially if it was the sort of practise that would involve Bludgers.

But really, what was Wood _thinking _when he let the Bludger lose. Actually – _was_ Wood thinking? The-boy-who-lived might be unaware of what a Bludger was like but surely the-Quidditch-captain-who-couldn't-shut-up could have explained it without setting it free.

It had been pretty good watching him trying to re-catch it though. He, as a Slytherin, knew full well that no amount of lip biting and mental preparation would make it easier to catch the highly aggressive piece of equipment. It hadn't stopped Wood trying though. It also hadn't made any difference when the ball barrelled into to him. The brunet keeper had been forced to half-dive on the ball to get a grip on it and had then been forced to writhe and thrash on the ground for several minutes as he attempted to get some control over the violent ball. He'd got managed to get the Bludger back in the box eventually of course and had continued, although looking slightly dishevelled, to tutor Potter on Quidditch.

He didn't even need to be in earshot to know exactly what was going on. The pointless jerks of Wood's head and hands as he made his way through the explanation told him everything he needed to know. The ever-optimistic keeper was just _thrilled_ to have a new seeker with no experience and no knowledge of the game even if it meant that their little training session was going to go on well into the night.

Stupid, insane, smiling, idiot, sort of appealing (oh god no – never, ever that) Gryffindork moron.


	3. Cup

Marcus Flint shouldered his way through the crowds. The Quidditch World Cup. Heaven.

"Hey Flint," came a voice from somewhere to his right. He frowned the voice was strangely familiar but he was sure it wasn't any of his friends.

He glanced over and felt his eyebrows shoot for his hairline. Grinning and waving at him was Oliver Wood. WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME?! He thought back, wondering confusedly when he'd _ever_ given the brunet ex-Gryffindor any reason to be friendly towards him, he could think of none.

"Congratulations on making the Falmouth team," chirped the younger man, "They've got an excellent line up this year, it's going to be a close contest all the way. Let's just hope that the skills that are entering league Quidditch show up next time England has an international match."

Marcus nodded hesitantly, the whole situation was exceedingly surreal, "The England squad never stood a chance this year, they lost half their team before the cup started and the rest of the team are just incompetent."

"Still," Wood chuckled, "It was a little humiliating. There were better played games back in Hogwarts."

"Um-hum," Marcus said, noticing with some discomfort that the smiling youth had fallen into step beside him.

"I assume you're supporting Ireland?" Wood asked, unperturbed by his lack of response.

"Of course," Marcus said, noticing with a hint of amusement Wood's Ireland-green pullover which once upon a time he would have called Slytherin-green.

Wood chuckled and caught his eye with a flicker of a smile.

"You still playing Quidditch?" Marcus asked awkwardly, it was the only thing he could think of to talk about when he wasn't even sure why the conversation was going on.

Wood chortled, "Of course! Puddlemere United reserve team…"

"Really, then I guess you stand good chances at making the line up by late season year then," Marcus remarked, "Their current keeper isn't going to last much longer."

Wood shrugged, "Would've been nice to make a team straight off but reserve isn't bad when you consider how few people make it all."

Flint nodded sympathetically, "When you think about it there are fourteen league teams and each team's got seven players – there are only ninety-eight people in the country at any one time playing professional Quidditch on a first team."

Wood let out a low whistle, "I never thought about it like that before – that's kinda cool."

Marcus nodded and they walked along in silence for a few moments.

It was strange, throughout school Wood had been a rival and an enemy, but now they were out of Hogwarts Wood was just a fellow Quidditch player – albeit on a different team. There was no need to resent him for his house and there were very few other reasons to be had. Oliver Wood had never been easy to dislike.

"We should catch a few drinks after the game," Oliver blurted out suddenly, "I know a pub not too far from here and it'd be nice to catch up."

Marcus wondered vaguely what on earth they could have to catch up on. Then he caught sight of the hopeful look on the charming young man's face. He suddenly couldn't think of any good reasons to say no.

"Sure…" he shrugged.

Oliver beamed in a blinding way that caused him to almost trip over his feet, "Great – it's a date."

Marcus decided there was really no reason to correct the phrasing.

**A/N Review?**


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